


Under the Proverbial Wing

by langeenrouge



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, hannibloom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:24:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/langeenrouge/pseuds/langeenrouge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Alana Bloom pursues that affair with renowned psychiatrist, and now mentor, Hannibal Lecter.</p><p>Based upon the roleplay thread "Under the Proverbial Wing" written by Hannibalrp (of Tumblr) and myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Have you decided yet?”

Hannibal looked up from his desk, his lips pressing together in disapproval as Professor Richards came into view. An aura of unwarranted arrogance exuded from the man, and Hannibal couldn’t stand it. Besides, Professor Richards didn’t know how to dress well.

"What am I supposed to have decided?" Hannibal asked, playing dumb.

"Oh, come on. Have you decided who you’re going to mentor yet?"

Who Hannibal would choose for his mentor-ship had been a subject of great discussion among the other lecturers and doctors, owed to the fact that he was greatly cautious and selective about who he chose to take under his proverbial wing. Any favorite of Hannibal Lecter’s became a local celebrity with the other students, and a subject of jealousy. 

"Actually," he replied, "I have. I’ve chosen Miss Alana Bloom." That clearly wasn’t the answer Richards had been anticipating. That gave Hannibal pleasure. "In fact, I’m expecting her any moment so I can deliver the good news."

It was with Hannibal’s allude to their rendezvous that Alana had made her way into the lecture hall. The young woman, having felt the heated atmosphere between both her professors, had come to a complete stop with consternation that she had interrupted a conversation that had entailed much urgency-- after all, she would have hated project herself as rude.

Impulsively, she smoothed her fingertips across the body of her leather shoulder bag, becoming hesitant with her next step forward. “Professor Richards,” she greeted, her right foot stepping in front of her left as she brought herself closer to the duo at the desk. “Professor Lecter,” she bid Hannibal with an undeniable smile tugging her lips upward.

“-- I hope I’m not interrupting too important,” Alana defended herself lightly, glancing back over her shoulder to peer upwards at the clock overhead to clarify within herself that she had arrived as planned-- punctual as always. 

But, with all uncertainty clarified, she turned back towards her superiors with her fingers looped underneath her ponytail to tug it tighter high on her head.

 

Relief - the kind that he couldn’t admit to himself - washed over Hannibal as he focused on Alana. She couldn’t have arrived at a better time: things with Richards were taking a toll on his temper.

"Miss Bloom, welcome. Professor Richards was just leaving." 

Richards shot him a disgruntled look before he traipsed out of the lecture hall, leaving Hannibal and his soon-to-be pupil alone.   
Hannibal gestured for Alana to sit opposite him.

"I wondered whether I might discuss something with you." He took a moment to consider what he was about to say; to consider whether he was making the right decision. But one look at Alana’s bright, eager eyes assuaged any doubt he may have had.

"Although I’ve gained a reputation over the years for being selective when it comes to whom I tutor, I have decided to become your mentor at this university. Simply put: we are now at each other’s beck and call." He smiled at her, a small but clear twist of his lips. "If you’ll have me, of course."

Watching her professor exit the lecture hall, Alana had then shifted her position to sit besides Hannibal as he had instructed and began to consider each word he had uttered to her; she couldn’t suppress the gratitude she felt in regards to his offer, but there was hesitation when she had proceeded with her response..

“-- I’m honored, Professor Lecter,” she spoke as she allowed her gaze to lower to her lap for just a mere moment to examine her folded hands. “But,” she said. “Believe it or not, Professor Richards had already asked me the very same thing,” she explained.

She felt as though she were playing hard to get as she strung Hannibal along like a cat with a single strand of string-- testing just how eager he had been to claim her as his pupil. But, even with her toying her mind had been made up and her decision set in stone without wasting a moment more to consider. 

Fury hit him hard in the gut, but rippled only gently across his features. He had learnt how to control his facial expressions over the years, perfected it to the point where some might even call him expressionless. But the anger was there, and the thought screamed at him:

Richards tried to steal Alana Bloom from you.

Whatever game Richards was playing, Hannibal would make sure he lost it.

"You’re highly sought after, I see," he replied, maintaining his graceful smile. "No wonder Professor Richards was curious to see who I would choose as my pupil."

He sat back in his chair and observed Alana. For a fleeting moment he wondered whether she might accept Richard’s offer. Hannibal was surprised how much that bothered him.

"He is, of course, an extremely adept professor and doctor. You would learn much from him, I’m sure. No one could blame you for accepting his offer, and rejecting mine." He stared deeply at her. "If that’s what you want."

“I say this with no offense to Professor Richards,” Alana bagan as if she had discarded all that Hannibal had spoken to her in his attempts to reassure and sway her decision; she couldn’t decline Hannibal’s offer. Even if she had desired to do so it would have been a mistake on her part. Everyone had come to know that he, a renowned psychologist, had only ever taken a few-- very few-- under his guidance.

It wasn’t something that one could look past and turn down and Alana was no exception to that.

“I choose you,” she stated, shifting her frame back in her chair as her right leg moved to cross over her left. “Professor Richards has much to offer, of course, but I believe that you can offer to me more,”

His gaze flickered - for one brief moment - to the patch of skin revealed as Alana crossed her legs. Just as soon as he’d taken in the cream texture of her knees, Hannibal looked away again. 

When Alana made her choice clear, he made no effort to hide his smile. “Excellent,” he said. “Although I sympathize with Professor Richards for losing such a fine opportunity to tutor someone as adept as you, Miss Bloom.”

Hannibal continued: “My first request to you then is to attend the dinner party I’m hosting tonight. Some of the faculty will be there, Professor Richards included, and some interesting people who I’d like to introduce you to.”

With Hannibal’s offer came flattery, but as he had continued, Alana found herself feeling intimidated by the idea; attending a dinner party hosted by her mentor would have been nerve wracking all within its own. Attending a dinner party hosted by her mentor with the intention for her superiors settled itself into a completely different category.

“Are you positive you’d like me there?” she inquired, weary of what the evening itself would entail. “I’d hate to stir the pot,” she added in jest as she referred to the obvious conflict that would arise between he and Richards. 

"Why not?" he asked her, teasing. Hannibal leaned forward, knitting his fingers together in a steeple and resting his chin on top. "It’s important that you know I am a secret advocate of anarchy, Miss Bloom."

What Hannibal left out was that he wanted to flaunt his new treasure in front of Richards.  
"If you want a career in your field then you’ll need connections," he continued. "And now you have me, and the resources I possess. It’s best you take advantage of them."

Half of the city would have died to be invited to one of his dinner parties, yet here Alana was, thinking of turning him down. It amused Hannibal.

"I trust you have something to wear?"

“I do,” Alana confirmed with the conclusion that the entirety of the evening would be insightful on a level that her peers wouldn’t have the privilege to experience-- using what had been dealt to her to her to the best of her advantage and Hannibal enforcing such one hundred percent.

“I’m going to assume the dress is formal?” she asked, basing such accusations on her knowledge of Hannibal: a man who dressed to the nines on a regular basis must have thrown parties that had coordinated along the lines of such.

“And can I assume that it will be you who is cooking?” she added with a lack of knowledge that Hannibal could indeed cook. Her lips spread upwards calmly in amusement. 

Hannibal smiled. “Yes,” he replied smoothly. “I cook.”

He already had this evening’s menu planned out. Blood sausage with saffron butter, brain cannelloni with Chanterelle mushrooms, cocoa dessert with pomegranate reduction. It would be a feast. Perhaps a little overwhelming for Alana, but he wagered it would be a delight to educate her taste buds.

"I decided to divert my talents to the culinary realm. One can only cut up so many people before it takes a toll."

Impressed with the information Hannibal had disclosed with her, Alana smiled at him in return. “I must admit,” she said, once again shifting forward in her chair. “That’s impressive,” she admitted and her fingers twined her fingers together atop her knee, beginning to ponder what other hidden talents the man before her had possessed.

“What time should I arrive,” she questioned Hannibal next, motivated by the idea of Hannibal cooking and growing eager to be a guest within his home. 

Hannibal considered telling Alana to arrive the same time as everyone else, but thought better of it at the last minute. If they were to develop their relationship as mentor and pupil then it would be a good idea to spend more time together. He pushed aside the fact that spending time alone with Alana excited him.

"Why don’t you come early?" he suggested. "You can get settled before the other guests arrive. I understand it can be daunting meeting new people all at once."

“Just to clarify: I don’t find it daunting to meet and mingle with a group of people, Professor Lecter,” Alana defended carelessly. “I’m well aware of the reputation and the attention your pupils gain though,” 

After all, Hannibal could very well sympathize with her on that note.

“Regardless, individuals will talk,” she spoke, eying him from her place. “Should we give them reason to?”

Over the years Hannibal had become a source of intrigue for the other professors and students. Professors wanted to be like him; students wanted to be with him. He’d had to gently rebuke many flirtatious advances from over-enthusiastic pupils, sometimes re-directing them to Professor Richards, who always loved the attention.

But for some reason the idea of rumors circulating about him and Alana didn’t trouble Hannibal.

"Come at six o’clock," he told her firmly. "The other guests are arriving at seven. That gives us plenty of time to better acquaint ourselves."

Nodding in agreement Alana had stood from the chair and worked to smooth her fingertips across across her thighs, flattening the fabric of her skirt across them. “I’ll see you at six then,” she confirmed, reaching downwards to retrieve her shoulder bag.

The way Hannibal had ignored her concerns of other students discussing the two of them hadn’t gone unnoticed, but for now such ponders had been pushed to the very back of her thoughts for now.

In time, Alana would come to know exactly what entailed for her underneath the proverbial wing of Hannibal Lecter.

But, for now, she had a dinner to ready herself for.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal left the university at 5pm, giving him plenty of time to return home and change into another suit. Although he was already dressed impeccably, he wanted to wear something special for this evening; something that would impress.

Browsing through his wardrobe, Hannibal selected one of his latest purchases: a fine grey suit lined with sumptuous satin. To go with it he selected a red silken tie and fastened it into his usual Windsor knot. Looking in the mirror, Hannibal smirked: Richards would never look this good.

Hannibal moved into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. It was nearly six o’clock. He wondered what Alana would be wearing. 

Alana had been punctual yet again and at exactly six o’clock, she had arrived and dressed for the occasion; her petite frame was dressed in a form fitting pencil dress crafted from a fabric of deep red coloring. The neckline cut just below her collarbone and stretched wide across the span of her shoulders only to then transition into a small sleeve, and revealed a small diamond pendant that sat solely at the base of her throat and matched the small studs that she wore clasped to her ear lobes-- all complimenting to her small build, but concealed underneath her heavy winter coat that buttoned up her front. Freely, her hair fell: The ends touching just an inch past her shoulders in large, wavy curls and her bags pinned back with a light pin that had matched her set of jewels.

Taking a deep breath in, she brought her knuckles to beat against the door to sound her arrival.

Hannibal had been slicing an onion, but paused to wipe his hands on a dishcloth before going to answer the door. Six o’clock sharp; he liked a woman who could keep time.

"Alana, welcome," he greeted, opening the door to reveal the quite stunning young woman. If there was one thing that Hannibal appreciated, it was beauty. And Alana was beautiful. 

With one fluid motion Hannibal ushered Alana inside, removing her coat at the same time. Crimson spilled into his hallway. “You look beautiful,” he told her simply, unafraid to lavish her with the truth. 

As Hannibal had opened the front door into his home, Alana had gotten just the smallest peek of the decor within as she looked past him. She herself had become impressed immensely as her eyes had just barely glazed across the rich colors and patterns and the pricey fixtures that had been chosen to compliment each other and the home itself . And when ushered inside, she indulged in her surroundings until Hannibal’s words had taken her by surprise.

“-- Thank you,” she accepted his compliment, the smile she offered to him crooked as the just the right side of her red painted lips curved upwards. “Your home is beautiful,” 

He followed Alana’s gaze as she took in the hallway’s appointments. “This is only the corridor,” he said with a small smile. “Let me give you a tour of the rest of the house.”

Hannibal guided her through his house, starting with the drawing room and progressing into his study; he purposely left out showing her the kitchen - she would see that soon enough. 

As they climbed the stairs Hannibal wondered whether he should show her his bedroom, or whether she might misinterpret that as him being suggestive; it was no secret that women in the industry were often subject to lecherous men always trying their luck. But, seeing as how he regarded himself as effortlessly charming, Hannibal decided it wouldn’t hurt. 

"This is my bedroom," he told her, opening the door to reveal a landscape of mahogany and chrome. "It’s one of the larger rooms in the house. I believe it was originally a parlor where the owners would entertain their guests."

Trailing close behind Hannibal, Alana shifted her gaze about each room that he had insisted upon showing her. Each room spendthrift-- and in the least bit tacky of ways-- and unique. His bedroom topping off her astonished demeanor.

“Its a lovely room, Professor Lecter,” she commented, bringing her hands to fold neatly in front of her and shifted her body in his direction. “I confidently say that your bedroom alone is bigger than my entire apartment,” she spoke to him and her voice tapered off into a chuckle.

Yet, she couldn’t help but ponder if it was an appropriate move on her mentor’s part in showing her his bedroom.

"You’re only a student," he reminded her. "We all must start out somewhere." After all, he hadn’t lived in luxury all of his life. There had been other, darker times.

Giving his bedroom one last cursory glance, Hannibal closed the door and led Alana back downstairs, and into the kitchen. An aroma of fresh herbs, wine and meat filled the room. 

Hannibal walked over to the counter and poured them two glasses of wine. “A 1980 vintage, full bodied. What do you taste in it?”

Alana had considered Hannibal’s words in regards to her being just a student; she knew very well that she wouldn’t always be cramped within the small two bedroom and one bath cubicle sized home on the sixth floor that she struggled to share with her prying roommate-- she often felt as though she had to pray she wouldn’t be damned to this chapter of her life, feeling as though it was like a poorly written repetitive novel that hadn’t had an end in sight.

All her witless worries aside, took a moment to admire the aroma the various pots and pans atop the stove had produced as she took the delicate glass richly colored red wine offered to her between her two hands. Hesitantly, she raised the rim to her lips where she tipped her head back and took a small sip of the contents within. 

What do you taste?

“-- Wine?” she responded as her features threatened to craft a look of distaste and she made no effort in taking another sip to better answer his question. “I taste wine.”

Hannibal studied Alana’s face as she sipped her glass of wine. It became apparent to him all at once that he had been presumptuous. “You don’t like wine.” It wasn’t a question; he already knew the answer.

He hesitated. He was used to his guests drinking wine, but his impeccable manners demanded that he find something else for Alana to drink. 

Walking over to his fridge, Hannibal studied the contents inside. “I can offer you some mineral water, or fix you a martini.”

His eyes settled upon a bottle of beer, tucked away at the back of his fridge. A guest at one of his previous dinner parties had gifted him it, but Hannibal was no fan of beer. “I also have a bottle of beer, although I assume that doesn’t appeal to you.” 

“I prefer beer more than wine,” 

Alana answered earnestly, her arm extending to place the wine glass atop the countertop to her right and flashed Hannibal a brief simper.

 

"We all have our pleasures," he told her, deftly removing the wine glass from Alana’s hand and replacing it with a pint of beer.

He took a sip of his own wine, taking a moment to completely savor it. Cherries, vanilla, oak. Exquisite. 

"So," he continued, "I will have to ensure there is always a cold beer in the fridge for you."

The insinuation was clear: Alana would be a regular feature of his kitchen.

“I’d appreciate that,” Alana tipped her head forward as she took the beer from Hannibal. But, it was only a moment after that she raised the glass to met her lips and tip it back to empty its contents into her mouth. 

The beer’s scent alone had been far more appealing to her than the wine and its taste, in her own personal opinion, superior as the rich liquid slid down her gullet. 

Maybe she was being narrowed minded and sticking to what she had been familiar with-- but one thing she knew for sure: wine was not her preference. 

Content, Alana directed the conversation in another direction as she peeked around to stand by the stove. “May I ask what you’re preparing?” she questioned and her hip leaned against the counter. “Or am I too meant to be kept waiting with everyone else?” grinning at Hannibal over the lip of her glass.

Hannibal had returned to the stove, lifting lids of various pots and pans to ensure the food was cooking perfectly. He looked up at her and grinned. “I usually keep my menu a secret,” he told Alana, smiling conspiratorially, “but I shall let you in on it.”

He gestured to each pan in turn. “Blood sausage with saffron butter. Brain cannelloni with Chanterelle mushrooms. And for dessert, cocoa dessert with pomegranate reduction.”

It wasn’t his most daring of menus, he supposed, but a delicious one nonetheless. 

“It smells delicious,” Alana confirmed, leaning forward to take in the various aromas that had blended in complimentary to one another.

“Where did you learn to cook, Professor Lecter?”

"After I retired as a surgeon," he explained. "I decided to devote my time and energies to cooking." Hannibal paused cooking to look up at Alana. "I suppose I’d seen too much death in the operating theater for my liking."

That wasn’t a lie, not really. He had grown weary from being a surgeon. So much death, and all of it ugly and pointless and lacking grace. 

"And Alana," he continued. "Outside of university, I am simply Hannibal, not Professor Lecter."

With a spark of understanding building within her, Alana nodded once; she herself could have only imagined that working as a surgeon had both its ups and downs, and while the ups outweighed the bad, she could only sympathize and take Hannibal’s word.

“That’s understandable,” she spoke with a warm smile that had soon stretched to one displaying her discomfort with Hannibal’s request-- embarrassed if she dare.

“Of course, Hannibal,” his first name foreign as it slid off her tongue and through her lips.

Hannibal decided he liked the way his name sounded on Alana’s lips. She spoke it gracefully, as if she’d always spoken it. 

He searched for the bottle of rye vinegar, needed for a side dish he was preparing, and remembered he’d left it in the pantry. Walking around the stove, Hannibal slipped past Alana, his hand momentarily whispering against her waist. 

"You haven’t told me what career you wish to pursue at the end of your studies," he said as he sifted through the contents of the pantry. 

With her lips ready to speak, she brought them to a close when Hannibal had brought his fingers against the curve of her waist-- she deemed the touch to be unintentional on Hannibal’s part.

“I plan on consulting for the FBI,” she spoke after clearing her throat quietly, her glass gently tapping against the counter as she set it down and watched the man shuffle through his pantry.

"The FBI?" he echoed, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "A noble choice."

Alana’s revelation made sense, though. She oozed goodness. The longer Hannibal spent around her, the more attracted to her sense of righteousness he became.

The food was coming along nicely. All he had to do now was serve it when the other guests arrived. That left him time to enjoy Alana’s company.

He perched on the counter opposite her, and took his wine glass back in hand. “May I ask what your classmates think of you becoming my new pupil?” 

“They already have their suspicions, Hannibal,” Alana confirmed with him, offering with her explanation a forced laugh and her head tipped forward for just a moment before she grasped at her glass once again.  
Several of her classmates had addressed their suspicions in regards to her and their professors relationship-- each and every comment utterly ridiculous in their own aspects.

“I’ll leave it at that,”

His hawk-like eyes noted the way Alana’s throat bloomed red, and her gaze fell downwards with embarrassment. He didn’t need to ask her to elaborate; it was clear what she meant. But still he asked.

"And what would they be suspicious about, exactly?" Hannibal queried, dipping his head so that their eyes would meet once more. 

With the clearing of her throat, Alana brought her lips together to form a thin line before she gave in to Hannibal’s prying. “They all seem to assume we’re engaging in romantic overtures,” she spoke. The single sentence summing up each vulgar inquiry she had been bombarded with here or there on several occasions. 

“It’s completely ridiculous when I speak it now,” she commented as her gaze became fixated on Hannibal’s. Truthfully, she seen Hannibal as nothing more than her mentor-- she respected the man far too much to even fantasize such situations. 

Several replies jumped to Hannibal’s tongue, but he swallowed each of them down; he wanted to take a moment, there was no sense in rushing his response.

In the end, Hannibal decided to tease her. 

"Is it utterly ridiculous because you find me unattractive?" he asked her. "Or maybe because my character is unappealing?" 

In the process of sipping from her glass, Alana had brought the glass away when Hannibal had proposed such assumptions. “I didn’t mean it offensively, Hannibal,” she reassured as she avoided his inquiries. “-- To either your looks or your character,”

Hannibal, as a whole, was charming. Anyone who had met and mingled with him would have come to the very same conclusion. 

Hannibal continued staring at her, his eyes penetrating Alana’s. Perhaps it was the two glasses of wine he’d consumed already, but he felt like teasing her and seeing how long it would take for her to come undone. That didn’t mean he wanted to humiliate her; the opposite, in fact. He wanted to test her in the same way he would test himself in pushing boundaries.

But he was interrupted.   
A knock at the front door (an abrupt knock, with a fist: Richards) sounded.

"Excuse me," Hannibal said, and went to answer the door.

Richards appeared on the other side. He hadn’t bothered to bring a gift or gesture of goodwill. “God, what are you wearing?” he asked, eyeing up Hannibal’s suit. If he was trying for disgust, he was failing; Hannibal could smell the jealousy on him.

"Kilgour," he replied suavely. "Shipped directly from London this morning." Hannibal smiled. "Please, come in. Alana is already in the kitchen.

Hannibal’s exit had allowed Alana just enough time to gather herself; her heavy exhale of breath settling her while she brought her palm to feel her warm cheeks-- praying that the warm shade of pink that had resided in her cheeks had diminished. 

“Professor Richards,” Alana greeted, turning her small frame in the man’s direction as she had become relieved that he had made his presence known.

She needed all embarrassment drained from her body. After all, neither Hannibal or herself needed Richards growing suspicious of what had been transpiring in the kitchen-- although the conversation had been merely friendly conversation.

"Alana," Richards said, making no effort to hide his roaming eyes. "Don’t you look simply ravishing?"

Hannibal stood behind Richard, and frowned. No charm to the man. No tact. And the way he eyed Alana up like his next meal made the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. 

"Drink?" he asked Richards, rather gruffly. 

"Wine," he replied, not looking at Hannibal. Richards took another step towards Alana. "So, Alana, this is what you chose over my mentorship? Gaudy suits and fancy food? I admit it, I’m hurt."

Alana watched the man with the wandering eyes and kept her poised stance firm as Richards had neared closer to her. “I had no intention of hurting you when I had made my decision,” she said. “But, keeping my best interest in mind, I feel as though that is with Hannibal,” she spoke to him.

Hannibal’s name spoken in the particular context had built regret within her. After all, Richards was a man who hadn’t shied away from sticking his nose in places he wasn’t welcome. He would snoop to find his answers until he was satisfied.

“I apologize,” she bid to him and raised her beer glass to finish off the remaining contents within it, glancing over at Hannibal briefly.

Richards noted the over-familiarity between Hannibal and Alana. Calling each other by their first names already? But he decided not to say anything - not right away, that is.

Hannibal took a large sip of his wine. His gaze met Alana’s for a brief moment. Tonight was going to be an interesting one.

A few moments later the door rang again, and this time a flurry of his guests burst through the door, already singing Hannibal’s praises. “I just know tonight’s feast will be the best yet!” 

He ushered everyone into the dining room. Before anyone else could assume otherwise, Hannibal went to the chair by his left side and pulled it back for Alana, looking at her expectantly. 

As Hannibal looked to her expectantly, Alana took the seat which had placed her within the line of everyone's watchful gaze. 

“Thank you,” she said to Hannibal and peered upwards at him and offered him a smile, anticipating each course.

Hannibal smiled down at her, pausing to admire Alana from above before he served the evening’s first course.

"Blood sausage," he introduced to the table, setting a portion in front of each person before sitting down at the head of the table. 

Everyone began to eat. Hannibal paused a moment to watch before he settled into his own plate of food.

"What meat is this?" a wizened retired surgeon asked. 

"Veal," Hannibal replied. "Organic, of course. I personally selected the calf myself."

There was a murmur of appreciation. 

After everyone had finished the first course, Hannibal raised his glass of wine and gently clinked it with his knife. “I’d like to take this opportunity to introduce my new pupil, Miss Alana Bloom.”

All eyes fell on Alana, each gaze hungry with curiosity. 

"So," said one woman, "you’re the one who finally captured Hannibal Lecter’s attention?"

Alana almost hadn’t wanted to cut into the masterpiece that was blood sausage crafted before her on the plate-- it was art like. But, she was glad she had. Within her mouth the bold flavors had, much like the beer, blended together strikingly. 

“I suppose I am,” she confirmed with the woman who had addressed her after raising the cloth napkin to her lips. “-- Does he not take interest in many?” she proceeded to ask her as her gaze followed Hannibal who had exited the dining room to retire to the kitchen for the next course.

“You all act as though I’m a rare species,” she teased lightly as she sought out insight from the others.

The woman, Odette, peered up and down the dining table, sharing a conspirational look with the other diners. “Hannibal?” she asked. “I daren’t say most of the ladies at this table have tried to gain his attention over the years. Maybe even some of the gentlemen, too.”

A moment passed in which the diners either laughed nervously or shuffled uncomfortably.

Odette continued: “The point being we all failed. But you…well, he must see something in you. What was it you studied again?”

"Criminal psychology," Richards said, cutting in. "I was going to be her mentor, as it happens. Now I’ll just have to sit back and wait to say ‘I told you so.’" 

Gently Alana’s head fell forward for a minute and her blood boiled within her as Richards attempted to guilt her into taking rethinking her decision. “What exactly is it you are waiting for, Professor Richards?” she inquired and her head fell to the right for just a moment after having thanked Odette for her input.

Richards was pushing her. Never before had it occurred to her that he would stoop to this level, with her that had been, and she wasn’t about to stoop there alongside him.

"You know," Richards said, leaning across the table to point a finger at Alana, "everyone thinks Hannibal Lecter is some genius, but he’s not. He’s pretentious."

All the other guests were laughing nervously, everyone except for Odette, who was quickly growing fond of Alana. She patted Alana’s hand comfortingly. “Just ignore him. Richards has never been able to handle his drink.”

“We are all entitled to our opinions,” Alana agreed after having listened to Richards reasoning, her pale eyes rolling in exasperation. 

“You have yours, Professor Richards. But, would you like to hear mine?” she inquired, looking to Odette for a mere moment. The woman who had grown fond of her had also earned a liking from Alana. 

“I find you to be a pretentious cad under the influence,” her lips finding her wine glass swiftly after her words had been uttered.

Richards snapped back in his chair, as though Alana’s words had physically wounded him. He opened his mouth to say something, when Hannibal entered with the next course.

Hannibal sensed the tension immediately. He swiftly glanced at Alana, noting her rigid posture and the way her clavicles had reddened, before he resumed his seat at the head of the table. 

"Well, this looks delightful," Odette remarked, rather sheepishly. There was a murmur of agreement.

"Brain caneloni with mushrooms and sautéed onions. Enjoy."

Small talk erupted as people began to eat. Odette began an animated conversation about the ethics of cloning, distracting everyone’s attention away from the spat between Richards and Alana.

Hannibal looked to his pupil. He reached out with his left hand, momentarily placing it on Alana’s before he used it to adjust his wine glass. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, ensuring no one heard.

“I’m alright,” Alana reassured Hannibal, her attention directed towards him and away from Odette’s topic of conversation and the dish of food before her. “Is there a reason you ask?” 

She felt herself beaming softly at Hannibal’s concern for her, but then grew heavy with guilt as she had felt unpleased with herself. She had only wished she would have bitten her tongue and refrained from saying such words to Richards in front of both his colleagues and friends.

She would gladly take the scolding for it later when she could personally inform him of the small dispute. But for the time being, she set it aside and leaned in towards the man at the head of the table.

Hannibal leaned towards Alana, as though he was about to share a deep secret with her. “I’m one of the country’s best psychologists,” he said, “I know when someone is angry. And I assume Richards is the cause of it.” He shook his head. “Think nothing of him. He’s little more than a fly on a horse’s flank, nipping away.”

Although his exterior remained calm, inside Hannibal found himself growing dark. Richards was making a mess of his evening. Tonight was meant to be about his peers meeting Alana, and he was ruining that. Whilst Hannibal had no doubt the entire room was impressed with his pupil, this isn’t the way he wanted the evening to go.

"Cloning will be the end of us," Richards blurted out. "Imagine cloning Hitler, or Attila the Hun!" He pointed at Hannibal with his fork. "Or, God forbid, imagine two Hannibals!"  
Odette smirked. “I could think of worse things.”

Hannibal lowered his fork. “And if there were two of you, Professor Richards? Would that not be your own personal dream come true? You’d finally have someone who found your unique sense of humor enjoyable.”

“Or your presence for that matter,”

Such words were uttered from Alana’s lips in a mere murmur, intended for only her own ears to hear before she shifted her frame towards Odette.

“I want to apologize for what I said,” she said to her. “I hope I hadn’t offended you-- or anyone else,”

Odette leaned in towards Alana, her relaxed posture suggesting friendship already. “Oh, don’t worry about it. We’ve all had a pop at Richards at one time or another. Think of it as your initiation into this little group.” She peered at Hannibal to make sure he was not watching before continuing: “He must be very keen on you. He’s never brought any of his other pupils to dinner before.”

Meanwhile, Hannibal was clearing away the main course. “Richards, perhaps you’d like to help me serve dessert.” It wasn’t a request: it was an order.

The two men went into the kitchen. Hannibal went about slicing a pomegranate in half. Its juice spilled out, bloodying his counter. “If you speak to her like that again,” Hannibal said casually, not even bothering to look up Richards, “I will ensure you never work in this city again.”

Richards shook his head, laughing. “You don’t have that kind of power.” But even if he didn’t sound so sure. He decided to try for bravado. “I’ll talk to her how I damn well please. Finish dessert off yourself.” With that, Richards stalked back into the dining room and collapsed into his chair, eyeing Odette and Alana suspiciously.   
“Not ever?” Alana questioned Odette as she eyed the two men that had exited the room. She could only imagine the conversation that was unfolding just a room over-- the idea causing a spike in her nerves.

Clearing her throat, Alana looked to Odette before she spoke. “Why do you think that is?” her wine glass between her hands for one last final sip. “-- If you don’t mind sharing,” her eyes once again lingering as Richards strolled back in and had continued followed him until he came to a stop in his chair.

"Oh, I don’t doubt Hannibal sees something special in you." Odette searched Alana’s face. The young pupil’s eyes were bright and alive with curiosity; she was simply oozing the kind of enthusiasm for life that Hannibal was attracted to. It was no wonder he’d chosen her. "The question is, what do you see in him?"

"An easy ride," Richards interrupted. "Or how about some money on the side? I hear tuition loans are getting more and more costly these days."

“What I see?” Alana repeated, digging deep within herself to salvage whatever patience she had left. “I see a teacher,” she responded carefully, her fingers tracing the base of the now empty glass.

“I see opportunity,”

Hannibal came in with dessert, and Richards, somewhat sobered by Hannibal’s threat, leaned back in his chair and said nothing. After all, he honestly didn’t know how far Hannibal’s influence extended. 

After everyone had finished dessert, the group split off into different rooms, as was sometimes the case. Some of the women remained sat around the dining table, gossiping, whilst the men retired to the drawing room for whiskey and cigars. 

Odette was doing her best to acquaint Alana with the other women. Some were doctors, others councilors; there was even an opera singer among them. “So, Alana, what made you decide you wanted to become a psychologist?”

Gently, Alana rested her elbows against the surface of the table as she engaged in conversation. Her chin rested against her fingers that had twined together to allow her to do so. “Why?” she repeated, her lips pressing into a thin line for a moment before she spoke yet again.

“The field has always held my personal interest,” she offered to them with a calm smile, refraining from the deeper, personal stories behind said reasons.

"Well," Odette replied, "under Hannibal’s guidance I dare say we’ll be reading about you in Psychology Today in a few years."

Meanwhile, Hannibal had forgone whiskey and cigars, instead retiring to his kitchen where he poured himself another glass of wine. Visions of tearing Richards apart - quite literally - filled his head. He would love nothing more than to corner him the way a python corners a mouse, and strike. 

He turned around to the sink and began washing the dishes. As he plunged his hand into the basin he felt something sharp bite into his hand. Grunting with surprise, Hannibal pulled his hand back, only to see he’d cut himself on one of his knives. A steady strain of crimson dripped down his wrist, threatening to stain his suit. 

Luckily he’d already thought to roll up his sleeves. 

For some reason he couldn’t help but blame Richards.

Alana offered the group of ladies a final smile before she stood. “If you’ll excuse me,” she spoke to them before she exited the dining room and stepped into the hall to and down towards the small restroom at its end.

But on her small trip, she had taken a moment to peek inside the kitchen where she knew Hannibal had resided for the time being-- observing his displeased demeanor within moments.

“-- Are you alright, Hannibal?” she asked him as her steps neared closer to the man at the sink, stealing a glance at his sliced palm. “Ouch,” she commented, taking a clean dish cloth into her hold to conceal Hannibal’s wounded hand within the rag.

With a gentle hold, her thumbs pressed against the cut and she applied minimal pressure.

Hannibal couldn’t remember a time when he’d been looked after; when someone had cared enough to look after him. He stared at his hand, wrapped in Alana’s, his brow knitted in concentration. He wasn’t used to this. “Harder,” he instructed her. “Press harder to staunch the blood flow.”

He could feel his hand pulsing with pain now, the initial shock now wearing off. Droplets of blood shined on the floor of his kitchen. Hannibal observed them before his eyes slowly climbed up towards Alana’s. “Thank you.”

Calmly, Alana’s smile spread across her face and her thumbs pressed harder into his palm. “Do you have anything to clean this with?” her eyes shifting from Hannibal to the doorway to ensure their privacy.

“I can go retrieve whatever it is you need,” she offered, her grasp firm around his hand with no intentions of releasing him.

"No," he told her. "It’s best to let the wound breathe. I’ve suffered worse."

With his other hand, Hannibal gently moved Alana’s own out of the way so that he could inspect his cut. It was deep, but wasn’t bleeding so fiercely any more.

Perhaps it was the wine, or maybe the fact that they were alone, but Hannibal decided to be blunt with Alana. “I had hoped tonight would have gone a little more smoothly. I didn’t expect Richards to be so unsociable.”

“That’s not something you could control, Hannibal,” Alana reassured Hannibal as she turned to wash her hands. “-- Or something you should be apologizing for,” she added.

“Professor Richards set aside, I truly enjoyed myself. Your friends are all lovely,” she said as she proceeded to dry her hands on yet another fresh dish towel. “Thank you for including me,” her frame shifting to face him and her fingertips smoothing the fabric of her dress downwards.

She couldn’t help but take notice to the way Hannibal had inspected his cut-- he was exceptionally thorough with everything he did.

"And judging by their reaction to you, I would say your debut has been quite the success." Hannibal had never doubted that his peers would be impressed by Alana. He just hoped for her sake the transition from student to protege would be a smooth one, especially where other students’ jealousy was concerned.

"I wanted to give you something," he said, almost forgetting. Hannibal went over to the armchair that sat in the corner of the kitchen and retrieved a finely packaged gift from on top of it. Inside was a folio diary, something for Alana to record her notes in. 

"Every psychiatrist in the making should have one," he said, alluding to what was within the gift as he placed it into her hands.

“A gift? Thank you,” Alana spoke as she grasped the packaged diary between both her hands and gently her fingers worked the paper open, revealing the gift it had concealed within.

“Its very thoughtful, Hannibal. Thank you again,” she said to him as she settled her gaze on his after a moment of toying with the diary. She could only hope her cheeks hadn’t appeared pink as she felt them grow warm.

Hannibal inclined his head towards Alana in a silent gesture of appreciation. He was pleased she liked her gift. It had taken him some time to find the perfect diary, but he seemed to have done well.

"Tomorrow you’ll have cause to start writing in it," he told her. "I am planning an excursion for us. Something I hope will be enlightening to your studies.

“What will we be doing?” Alana inquired and moved to set the book down with her things, only to then shift back over to the sink to finish washing the dishes Hannibal couldn’t finish.

"We will be visiting a sanitarium."

Hannibal paused to search Alana’s face for some reaction. Granted, this wasn’t the kind of excursion mentors usually took their proteges on. 

"It’s located on the outskirts of Baltimore. The sanitarium still employs electroshock therapy for patients suffering with mental disorders. Last year a patient died after being treated for homosexuality."

The sanitarium was a morbid place, where failed surgeons and doctors went to torture the sick. The only reason it was still open was because the state senator’s estranged son was a patient there.

"I think it would be beneficial for you to see how psychological disorders can be exacerbated with the wrong treatment." 

“That sounds beneficial,” Alana agreed, more than interested in attending. “-- It’s not open to the public anymore,” she stated and looked up from the sink to Hannibal.

“How do you expect us to get in?” she questioned as her fingers worked beneath the soapy water to scrub his dishes clean.

"You forget, Alana," he said teasingly, "I’m very well connected."

Entrance wouldn’t be a problem. There were men and women in the sanitarium who owed him a favor or two, and he would cash them in tomorrow. 

"It won’t be a particularly welcoming environment," he warned her. 

As Alana washed dishes, Hannibal began to dry them, and together they worked like that, until each guest excused themselves, including Richards. 

"May I ask how you’re getting home this evening?" he asked. Hannibal wasn’t sure he wanted Alana leaving unescorted. Who knew if Richards was out and about, prowling?

Laughing softly at Hannibal’s teasing comments, Alana passed Hannibal her clean dishes. “I drove here,” she informed him and proceeded to bid her goodbyes to each of his guests accordingly.

“So, I’ll be driving myself home,” she finished with a calm simper and passed to him the final dish.

Hannibal glanced at the clock above Alana. It was nearly midnight. The time had passed quickly. 

Once the last plate was scrubbed and dried, Hannibal leaned against his kitchen counter.

"Can I tempt you into another beer?" he asked. "Or is it past your bedtime?"

“No, I can assure you its not past my bed time,” Alana reassured him after peering upwards at the clock to read the time herself and used the dish towel to dry her damp hands.

“I’ve got time for one more,” she agreed.

"That’s the spirit," Hannibal said, grinning. He went over to the fridge and got Alana a fresh beer, pouring it into a pint glass. 

He topped up his own glass of wine and then directed her into his den. There was already a fire roaring, and with it being winter there was nothing more welcoming than the flames.

Hannibal sat in his usual armchair in front of the fire, and sighed contentedly. If he wasn’t careful he might fall asleep.

With her beer in hand Alana followed Hannibal and took the seat in the chair opposite to him. “Do you host parties often?” she inquired after she had taken a sip from the chilled glass and placed it on the side table-- on top of a coaster of course.

He nodded his head. “I enjoy cooking. It gives me satisfaction to see everyone enjoy what I create, also.”

Hannibal relaxed his posture. It was rare that he felt comfortable enough around someone to lower his guard, but with Alana things were different. He didn’t have to try so hard.

"Do you cook?" he asked.

“Me?” Alana looked to Hannibal, ashamed of her answer. “No. I can’t cook,” she stated with an embarrassed chuckled as she recalled the last time she had attempted creating in the kitchen-- it ended up in the trash bin.

"I’ll teach you."

The words were out before he’d even had time to think. But once he’d spoken them, Hannibal realised little else would please him more than making a sous chef out of Alana.

"We can have dinner together once a week. I’ll teach you a different recipe each time, and then we can enjoy it over beer and wine."

“I’m flattered, Hannibal,” Alana reassured him and lifted her head that had fell to peer downwards into her beer glass that was once again held between her hands. “But, only if you feel that its appropriate,” she said.

She could hear the various comments others would make if word had gotten around that Hannibal wasn’t only guiding her closer down the path of her career, but also guiding her in the kitchen-- they would not be the kindest she could only imagine.

"If you’re asking me if I think it’s appropriate to teach someone how to make a good omelette," Hannibal quipped, "then my answer is yes. I think it is appropriate."

But of course it wasn’t appropriate. Hannibal knew where the lines had to be drawn, but he refused to draw them. He alone would construct the boundaries of their relationship, to hell with Richards or anyone else. Sometimes anarchy was a necessity. 

"Your parents never taught you to cook?"

Alana chuckled quietly to herself. “My mother? Cooking?” she pondered aloud and took a rather large sip of beer. “-- On the occasions she wasn’t working past seven o’clock dinner was enjoyable. But, that was on very rare occasions.”

“For my father, dinner was more enjoyable with him attending it rather than him preparing it,” she added, smiling softly to herself. 

“My father was a pilot and my mother was a lawyer-- both retired now-- so schedules were always clashing. Some nights dad was there, some nights he was in Europe. Mom was busy at the office. It was generally my brothers and I” she spoke to Hannibal casually.

Had she said too much? She considered that to be a possibility briefly.

Hannibal devoured each of Alana’s words, filing them away for future reference. “I learn more about you every day,” he quipped, tilting his head.

From a brief glimpse into Alana’s life, Hannibal could already surmise several things about her: she was self reliant, mature and had something to prove - not only to family, but to herself.

“I can assure you I’m not the most interesting person you’ll come in contact with,” Alana assured Hannibal, shying away from his comment with a sheepish smile. 

“I’ll warn you of that now.”

"I’ll be the judge of that," Hannibal concluded. But he had already made up his mind. Alana intrigued him, and that was a rarity in his life. The urge to learn more about her, to become a part of her life, was intense, almost frightening him.

He finished his wine. A pleasant tingling warmed his belly.

"Tomorrow will be an interesting one," he promised. "And hopefully as successful as this evening has been."

“I look forward to it,” Alana said to him and her head tipped back to finish the remaining source of rich liquid within her glass. “Shall I meet you there or shall we drive together?” 

"I can collect you," he said. His 2003 Bentley Arnage T never failed to impress company. 

Hannibal stood up and walked Alana to the front door. He helped her into her coat, smoothing the fabric down at the arms. “I hope you found this evening to be beneficial, snide remarks aside,” he said, hinting at Richards’ behaviour.

Already he found himself anticipating tomorrow.

“Snide remarks aside,” Alana started, shifting and turning about as Hannibal aided her with her coat. “I had a very good time,” she once again reassured him and moved her fingers to fasten each button into its appropriate place.

“But, could you do me a favor next time you see Professor Richards?” she questioned, her hands wrapping her warm scarf around her neck.  
The night was a cool one. Hannibal breathed in: tomorrow was going to be cold, he could smell it in the air.

Hannibal raised one eyebrow in question at Alana. “Perhaps,” he replied coyly, “depending on what the favour is.”

He knew, though, that he would do almost anything Alana asked of him. 

Alana turned to face Hannibal, an amused smirk tugging at her lips before she spoke. “Now, I quote him when I say this,” she promised, but not after bidding her goodbye.

“Explain to him that I happen to enjoy the gaudy suites and fancy food.”

Hannibal watched Alana walk to her car and drive off. It was only after she was gone that he uttered, “Gaudy?”


	3. Chapter 3

The morning brought rain and threatened snow, so he dressed warm: a navy blue fleece underneath a black overcoat that fell to his knees. 

It didn’t take him long to drive to Alana’s. Her apartment was small, as she’d described to him, and his Bentley looked out of place on the street. 

He exited the car and rapped his knuckles on her front door, waiting patiently. 

As an afterthought, he patted his hair down, ensuring his parting hadn’t changed.

“Morning,” Alana greeted and pulled the door closed behind her before the man could get a peek inside. The building itself ages old and within the interior outdated-- slum like one were to compared it to the home Hannibal resided within.

“I swear, I think it gets chillier each and every day,” she commented and buried her hands deep within her warm pockets. Underneath she wore a pair of khakis, a burgundy camisole and a darker shaded fitted button up sweater, and her silver starfish necklace.

"Yes," he agreed, leading Alana to his car. He settled behind the driver’s wheel, starting the engine, which silently purred into life. Giving the street one final glance, Hannibal pulled away and began their drive. As they left Alana’s apartment behind them, he couldn’t help but feel she should be living in more attractive accommodations. That was something to address later.

"When we arrive at the sanatorium," he began, careful to keep his tone neutral, "I will introduce you as my assistant, not student. I would appreciate it if you maintained that role."

“Of course,” Alana agreed and gave a single nod in understanding, her hands now free from her pockets and folded neatly across her leather shoulder bag that rested on her lap.

“How many doctors are you acquainted with there?” she inquired and began to observe the interior of his car. Although impressive, Alana had deemed it just another car as she had any with her father to thank-- he himself a fan of luxurious automobiles.

"A few."

Hannibal had gotten some of the sanitarium's doctors out of trouble in the past. In fact, if it wasn’t for his participation then Hannibal had no doubt half of the sanatorium staff would be in prison now, serving life sentences. Still, he didn’t need to tell that to Alana.

As they arrived at the sanatorium, the rain had worsened, pelting down until Hannibal could barely see where he was driving. But he managed to part his Bentley safely enough. 

"Shall we?" he asked, exiting his side of the vehicle to hold Alana’s door open.

“We shall,” Alana agreed and reached for the small umbrella that had been tucked away deep within her bag before she stepped from the car. The heels of her boots sunk into the flooded gravel surface that was the parking lot, making her walk along side Hannibal difficult. But nonetheless she kept her pace even with his as they neared the sanatoriums entrance. 

“Here,” she said to him and held her umbrella high enough to cover both Hannibal and herself which had then brought the pair closer and diminished all space between them.

Hannibal stooped beneath Alana’s umbrella, at once becoming aware of their close proximity. He placed a hand on her back, partly to keep himself in balance but mostly just to feel her, and led her to the sanitarium's front entrance.

Once inside, Hannibal stood straight again, shrugging out of his coat and helping Alana out of hers as well.

A middle aged woman sat behind the reception desk. She looked beyond bored, until she saw Hannibal.

"Dr. Lecter," she greeted, smiling and revealing her rows of yellowed teeth.

"Moira," he said, nodding in acknowledgement. "This is my assistant, Dr. Bloom. I’m here to give her a tour."

Moira eyed up Alana suspiciously. “She looks a little young to be a doctor,” she noted, making a point of addressing Hannibal instead of Alana directly.

“Everyone always says so,” Alana said to Moira in jest as she folded her damp coat over her forearm, unable to argue the woman’s observation. Alana had the appearance of an individual in their early twenties-- she personally twenty five-- and it hadn’t aided them in their white lie.

“Its nice to meet you,” Alana added and pulled from her damp hair the tie that held the dark locks back from falling to her shoulders.

"Dr. Bloom is one of the youngest doctors to graduate in the last decade," Hannibal lied effortlessly. "I thought a trip here would be beneficial to her."

"Well, enjoy yourself. Take the keys, in case you want a closer look at one of the freakshows."

Hannibal frowned, but took the key from the receptionist anyway. 

He led Alana down the corridor, away from civilisation. Everything seemed to be covered in a layer of grime, the strip lighting overhead flickering. He couldn’t imagine a grimmer place to reside. 

"Your hair looks nice like that," he remarked quietly.

Hannibal could lie in an effortless manner and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by the young woman, but had gone unaddressed.

“Thank you,” Alana said to Hannibal as the pair trailed down the dimly lighted halls. She couldn’t help but find his compliment to be unprofessional, but even that had gone unaddressed. “Its a complete hassle when worn down,” she argued gently and her lips curved upwards.

“-- What are you going to show me first?” her folio diary and pen in hand.

Hannibal paused in front of the first room. He picked up the case file pinned to the heavily bolted door and perused the doctor’s notes. “Patient #245, name Kevin Bolton, incarcerated for murdering and consuming his mother.”

He looked up at Alana. “A cannibal.”

The notes also expressed Bolton’s unpredictable actions and violent nature. He was responsible for the death of two nurses and one doctor at the sanatorium. To bring Alana into that environment would be dangerous, but the file also said he was heavily sedated. 

"Are you prepared to enter the cell, or shall we move onto someone less volatile?"

“Lets go in,” Alana confirmed and raised herself upwards onto her toes to peek through the small window on the door. Inside sat the patient Kevin Bolton, sedated into a groggy slumber-- just as Hannibal had read aloud. 

Hannibal had been setting himself up for disappointment. Any ordinary person would have told him he was insane, more so than the patient behind the steel door. But Alana was not ordinary, and when she gave her consent Hannibal felt himself swell with pleasure and pride.

He placed the heavy key into the lock, and turned. Several bolts clanked into place, admitting them entry.

Inside, the cell smells of sweat and bile. It was clear no one cleaned the patients’ cells. Dogs were treated better in kennels.

Bolton sat in one corner, his head slumped forwards.

Hannibal walked forwards, peering down to examine the patient’s groggy features. “He has been incarcerated for the last ten years. In that time he has killed two nurses and one doctor. What treatment would you recommend for a patient in this instance?” 

Alana took several steps foward to observe the sick man who sat nearly lifeless in the corner. “Psychoanalytic,” she voice never reaching a tone louder than a murmur and her head cocking to the right as she observed Bolton in his catatonic like state.

“It would be most beneficial in gaining a better understanding of motives,” she added and took a glance back at Hannibal. 

He nodded his head, once. “I agree,” Hannibal said. 

The patient made a low moaning sound, his head twitching before slumping back down again.

"I offered to psychoanalyse Bolton a year ago," Hannibal continued. "After which I discovered he was mentally and physically abused by his mother. This suggests he is negatively affected by matriarchal types, or females of any description."

At the word mother, Bolton perked up. “M-mother?” he murmured. Slowly, painfully, Bolton looked up at Hannibal, before his deranged gaze settled on Alana. He bared his teeth and hissed at her.

"In tandem with psychoanalysis," Hannibal pursued, "I would also recommend a course of anti-hallucinogenics. To determine what specific medicine, however, we will need to run a few tests. Would you care to take the patient’s pulse?"

“Of course,” Alana nodded and quick jotted down within her diary Hannibal’s knowledge and her own, disregarding the man’s vicious hisses.

Diminishing the distance between Bolton and herself, Alana lowered herself to her knee beside him and pressed to the inside of his wrist her warm fingers. She applied just enough pressure to feel his pulls shift from a calm to an elevated beat and her eyes fixated on the thin, silver watch she wore.

“120 beats per minute,”

Hannibal nodded. He could hear the heartbeat for himself, even though he was stood back from Bolton. Could even smell the blood pumping through his veins. “Good.”

Bolton peered up at Alana. His brow caved with sorrow. At that moment he looked like a wounded animal. “Will you do something for me?” he asked quietly. “They took a bone marrow sample from me. On my back. It feels infected. Would you look? Please?” His eyes were glassy with the onset of tears. 

Alana gave into the man’s pleads effortlessly and offered him a single nod in agreement before shifting him forward. It was then that she tugged apart the back of his hospital gown to reveal his back.

She may not have been aspiring to be a doctor of medicine, but even she could confirm an infection, and the discoloration of yellows and reds that had coated the span of his Bolton’s back had confirmed such. Near the needle entry the skin was left blistered with pus filled pockets that ranged in size and appeared painful to the touch.

“Hannibal,” Alana urged for him to come take a look she spoke.

Hannibal knelt beside Bolton. He peered at the man’s back. Already he could tell the flesh had festered beyond repair; it wouldn’t be long before the man was paralysed, or dead. 

"I need to examine him further," he concluded. There might be some way to relieve the man’s pain, before the inevitable took over. Hannibal searched Bolton’s face. "If I unfasten your restraints, are you going to remain peaceful?"

Bolton nodded slowly. He looked too weak to even lift his head.

He searched the ring of keys given to him, and found the one for Bolton’s handcuffs. Hannibal unlocked them, and bent the man forward, leaning him against Alana. 

With deft hands - surgeon’s hands - Hannibal tenderly examined the inflamed skin. The puss would need to be drained, the inflamed skin poulticed, but it wouldn’t be impossible -

Before he could relay his deductions to Alana, Bolton surged forward with inhuman speed, wrapping his hands around Alana’s neck and squeezing.

 

It began when her head hit the metal door, the material element cold against her warm body and the contact she made with it rang inside her ears. The back of her head began to pound and throb on contact, but what she focused on was the pressure that hugged her throat.

She couldn’t breathe.

Bolton fooled her back there; he’d appeared haggard and carried himself in a weak manner, but here he was, lively and powerful and he denied her breath with his bare hands. 

Alana struggled against the con and used all of her body to fight him off. She used her palms to push him away, grabbing aggressively at the smock he wore in her effort push him off and with her short legs she kneed him. As hard as she fought, it was of no use and Bolton continued to choke her. Around her the room began to darken and her surroundings began to blur.

“-- Hannibal.” she rasped, desperate for his help, but she wondered if even he could fend off such a powerful man.

Hannibal rose to his feet, and watched. Bolton was surging with life now, as though taking Alana’s would restore his own. 

He expected to feel nothing. After all, this was what he enjoyed: the battle between life and death. Two sides of the same coin. And yet Hannibal was incapable of watching Alana suffer. The notion of losing her, and losing her in this violent way, pierced him with such a strong sense of grief he thought he might keel over.

And so he rushed forward, at once wrapping a strong arm around Bolton’s neck and pulling him backwards. Bolton staggered, and then pushed all his bodyweight back, crushing Hannibal into the wall. Hannibal grunted with pain, before punching his free arm into Bolton’s back, straight into his infected wound.

He felt Bolton slacken, and reach unconsciousness completely as Hannibal put him into a sleeper hold. 

As Bolton’s body dropped to the floor, Hannibal went to Alana, taking her face between his hands. “Are you alright?” he asked, brushing his thumbs across her cheeks.

 

Alana toppled over and onto the dirty floor on her hands and knees, wheezing as she worked to filled her lungs with what she needed most in that moment. Her breaths were labored and she coughed frantically; she sounded as if she were a woman who’d smoked for a lifetime. 

But then Hannibal was scooping her up, taking her face into his large - yet gentle - hands. They were softer than she’d expected and warmer too. She looked up through a sheen of tears, only to catch Hannibal looking back at her. He was concerned of course, but the way he held her almost made her feel as if Bolton’s unexpected outburst had tugged at his heartstrings.

She nodded her head weakly and she used her hands to crawl up the front of his body. “-- Yeah,” she wheezed and she held onto the front of his suit, balling the material in her fists.

Hannibal glanced over his shoulder to ensure Bolton wasn’t about to get up, but the man was completely unconscious. 

He kept one hand on Alana’s face, his thumb tracing small circles on her cheek, whilst his other hand calmly undid the first two buttons of her shirt, revealing her flushed collar. He placed his palm flat on her throat, and began to gently massage the constricted muscles underneath. To an outsider, it might have appeared as though he was the one strangling Alana.

"Breathe in," he instructed, his tone even and professional, though his other hand clasping her face emoted his concern. "And breathe out. Slowly."

 

Alana began to breath with Hannibal’s guidance, her shoulders rising and falling with the action and soon - after a prolonged period of time - she found herself relaxed, but not calm. 

His voice was soft and soothing-- just like the hand that massaged the tender skin of her throat. It felt good.

“-- Thank you.” she struggled to utter a whisper.

"Don’t thank me," Hannibal mumbled. "This was my fault."

He helped Alana to her feet, and then turned around to fasten Bolton’s restraints again. “I think that concludes our diagnosis.”

Hannibal guided Alana out of Bolton’s cell, firmly locking it behind them. Once outside, he went to Alana again, placing his hands gently on her shoulders.

"I was foolish to have brought you here," he whispered, massaging Alana’s shoulders through the fabric of her clothing. "I nearly got you killed."

 

“You can’t blame yourself for that, Hannibal.” 

Neither of them could have known that Bolton would have lashed out at her-- he was so heavily medicated that it almost seemed impossible for him to throw himself around let alone her. Almost impossible.

She used the wall to hold herself up. “-- I don’t blame you.” she admitted and looked up at him, fighting the coughs that tried to escape her body.

Alana liked the way Hannibal’s hands felt against her body-- the way they massaged her skin through her clothes and the way he worked to repress the fear inside of her. 

She liked it a little too much.

She swept away her hair that had fallen into her face, tucking the loose strands behind her ears. Her hair was a mess regardless.

Hannibal lowered his arms from Alana, and dusted himself off. Now that the heat of battle was cooling, he became aware of a pain in his back, from where Bolton had rammed him into the cell’s wall. He sighed.

"I think perhaps it’s best if we return to my home," Hannibal said. "We can discuss Bolton’s case there."

He stroked his hair back into place. “I have a fresh beer waiting for you.”

 

Alana fastened her blouse closed, hiding the bruises that already started to form across her creamy skin. They were an array of colors: blue and purple, some even black and in the shape of a hand. 

She stepped away from the wall and followed Hannibal closely, at his side as they traveled back down the hall. “I don’t think I could pass that up.”

This time as they walked down the corridor, Hannibal kept one hand planted firmly on the small of Alana’s back; it wasn’t often he felt protective of another human being, but he was now, and that inspired him to keep Alana under his wing.

He said nothing to the receptionist on their way out. He simply deposited the key on the desk and then they were on their way.

By the time they reached Hannibal’s house, the rain was pelting down, battering the earth. He helped Alana out of her coat once they were inside, and led her straight into the kitchen, his place of comfort.

Without a word, Hannibal walked over to the fridge, and pulled out a beer for Alana. As he bent down he felt the bruise on his back bloom with pain, and grunted. Bolton had been surprisingly strong.

She was more than a little disappointed they were forced to end their field trip short, but it was for the best. She’d managed to gather some notes, all of which were scribbled down in her folio diary and ready for discussion, but the car ride back to Hannibal’s home was silent. The sound of the heavy rain pellets against the windshield was noise that filled their ears.

They’d even entered the home in silence and remained that way until finally, Alana used her mentor’s suffering as an opening for discussion.

“Hannibal,” she said and watched him shuffle through his refrigerator for her beer. “-- Maybe I should look at your back?” 

His pain was obvious. He moved slowly and his body lacked grace.

“Let me look at it.”

Where his own health was concerned, Hannibal remained extremely private. Unless he needed tests running, he diagnosed and took care of himself. It was just another way he had become self-sufficient over the years.

But, for once, he wanted someone to care for him; to care at all.

He moved over to Alana, depositing her beer on the counter. Slowly, he pulled up his fleece, revealing his back: thick with muscle, but still soft, like a dancer’s. His skin had already turned black and blue with bruises. Hannibal tried to peer over his shoulder, but couldn’t see well enough.

"How does it look, nurse?" he asked, forcing a weary smile.

 

She admired Hannibal's physique, heeding all of the unique blemishes he had and the way his skin stretched taut across his muscles. She was glad his back was turned to her. He couldn’t see the effect he had on her. 

She was grateful.

“Just a couple of scrapes.” she explained. “And here,” she traced the tip of her index finger across the small of his back, careful not to hurt him. “a large bruise.”

Her teeth played with her bottom lip and she folded her hands behind her back. “-- You’ll live.”

Hannibal winced as Alana touched his grazes. He could feel his skin tingling with revulsion at the thought of the sanitarium's filth getting under his skin. “I need to disinfect the grazes,” he said, walking over to the cabinet where he kept his basic first aid kit handy. 

He didn’t feel self conscious parading around his kitchen shirtless. As a doctor, the sight of flesh didn’t embarrass him; it was also his intention to endear himself to Alana, and what better way to do that than to let her see him vulnerable?

"Would you mind?" Hannibal asked Alana, handing her the disinfectant. "I would also like to inspect your windpipe afterwards."

 

Alana insisted that Hannibal sit, taking it upon herself to pull out a stool for him. “You should sit.” she said and she laid out across the counter several napkins, each damp with disinfectant. 

When he’d taken a seat Alana carefully pressed the rag against one of the scrapes on his back, gentle as she wiped away any blood or dirt that stuck to his skin. 

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” she peeked over his shoulder at him and moved down on his back, completing the process once again until she had one last cut to clean. She guided Hannibal forward, curving his spine and she dragged her rag across the small of his back-- just above the band on his pants. 

"No," he replied, surprised at how soft his tone had grown: almost sleepy. Alana’s touch felt undeniably lovely. 

"You’ve only been my pupil two days, and already blood has been spilled." 

Hannibal sat patiently, casting his gaze around his kitchen as he waited for Alana to finish. When she’d treated his wounds, he went to inspect her own.

With deft, practiced hands, Hannibal gently placed his hands upon Alana’s throat, using his thumb to trace across the delicate skin there. “Your windpipe is bruised,” he confirmed, noting how his breath stirred the microscopic hairs along her neck. “Does it hurt to breathe?”

Alana nodded her head. “Yeah,” she said and grew uncomfortable as Hannibal pressed on her throat. “just a little, though.” she confirmed. She never stirred under his touch.

She swallowed, certain he could feel it with the pads of his thumbs. “How long do you suppose it’ll take to heal?” she questions her mentor and her eyes began to travel south, no longer fixated on his face but on his bare chest. She was admiring him once again. 

“-- And how long will scarves be my best friend?” she chuckled softly and looked back up at his face.

"A week or so," he said, brushing his thumb one final time across Alana’s windpipe, satisfying himself that no real damage had been done. He would punish Bolton for harming Alana in due course, but for now he pushed that to the back of his mind.

"Fortunately I have a temporary cure for a bruised windpipe," Hannibal continued, looking up into Alana’s face and flashing her a bright grin. "Ice cream."

He broke away from her - albeit reluctantly - and slipped into his shirt again. Then he went over to his freezer and removed a tub, placing it on the counter beside Alana.

"Mint and rosemary, with salted pistachio nuts. It was a project of mine last weekend."

 

She was presented with a delicious surprise-- and a much needed one at that. “May I ask you something?” she smiled up at Hannibal once she’d finished admiring the tub of ice cream before her. “Is there anything you can’t prepare?”

Is there anything you can’t do?

From 16th century deviled eggs recipes to the latest molecular culinary experiments, Hannibal had tasted and made it all. Cooking was the perfect blend of art and science, so naturally it would appeal to his character. Therefore, he had to think for some time about a recipe he hadn’t yet perfected.

"When I was a boy, I remember my mother used to bake a sweet loaf. I’ve since tried to recreate it, and have failed on every occasion."

His eyes had been confidently trained on Alana, but at the mention of his mother they slipped to the counter, and then to the ground altogether, a furrow creasing his brow.

She frowned, sympathetic towards Hannibal as he revealed just a small snippet of his life to her. Alana could see the hurt he wore as he mentioned his mother.

“-- How unfortunate.” 

She spoke softly now and even wanted to offer him some sort of condolence, but maybe that was off limits based on where they stood-- or where they were supposed to be stood. Already she felt as though she knew too much, but she found herself wanting to know more-- to know all of what Hannibal Lecter - her professor- was.

She licked her lips. “And frustrating.”

Hannibal lifted the corner of his mouth in a half-smile. “Yes,” he agreed. 

He laid a bowl in front of Alana, and scooped some ice cream into it. “Eat. It’ll help your throat.”

His own appetite had rapidly diminished, but he could still take pleasure from watching Alana eat.

"I usually refrain from speaking about my family. I’m of the opinion that dwelling on one’s past can be counterproductive. Especially where long lost recipes are concerned."

 

“I won’t pry.” Alana promised Hannibal and laid her hand across of the back of his, squeezing the limb in a tender manner and she smiled at him. She traced her thumb across his once.

But, her affections hadn’t lasted long and soon she was eating ice cream from the bowl Hannibal had pushed her way. It was delicious, of course.

Thank you," Hannibal said, looking down at their enveloped hands. "Leave the prying for your future patients."

He glanced at the clock, surprised to see evening was already encroaching. Time had a habit of accelerating when he was in Alana’s company. 

"Will you stay for dinner?" he asked her, perhaps rather presumptuously. Hannibal gestured to the weather outside: the rain had turned to a flurry of snow. "Or would you prefer I take you home now, before we’re entirely snowed in?"

 

Alana looked left and saw that outside the weather had taken an unexpected turn, the ground outside covered in slush as snow fell from the sky and blanketed the ground that was damp with rain. She hated to make Hannibal drive through that.

“I can do dinner,” she said. “-- I could help.”

Hannibal was - for the first time in a very long time - at a loss for words. Nobody ever offered to help him in the kitchen, and he never requested it of his guests either. It was something - until now - he thought was undesirable. 

But he would let Alana help him.

"Of course. Thank you."

He had settled on the evening’s menu that morning, but now that Alana would be dining with him Hannibal had a better idea. “In fact, I think I shall use this opportunity to give you your first cooking lesson.”

Without further delay he withdrew several ingredients: eggs, onions, garlic, spinach and cured parma ham. 

"In my opinion, learning how to cook a good omelette should be a staple in anyone’s life."

Alana was ahsmed to admit that she couldn’t prepare a proper omelet-- or at least one that would match Hannibal’s standards of one. The first - and last one - she’d created ended up on the floor.

It was an embarrassing mess.

“Well,” she said and stepped forward, looking at each ingredient Hannibal laid out across the table. “teach me to make a proper omelette, Professor.” she insisted and rolled up her sleeves, the material folded around her elbows.

Her tone was playful.

Certainly, Miss Bloom," he intoned, his head tilting as he graced her with a mischievous grin.

Hannibal started by cracking several eggs into a metal mixing bowl. Then he handed Alana a whisk, and went to stand behind her. “May I?” he asked, placing his hands on top of her wrists. 

"Whisking is a subtle motion, not unlike sewing a stitch." 

He peered over the top of Alana’s head, and coaxed her to begin whisking with a gentle nudge of his right hand.

 

“Like this?” she asked him and like he, she began to move her hand at a steady pace which then moved his. 

Alana could feel her cheeks grow warm; she knew it was childish, but their bodies were so close. She wanted to be closer to him.

"There," he said, nodding in approval. "You’re a natural."

Hannibal stepped away from Alana, letting her whisk the eggs for a little while longer. “Now we let the eggs rest.” He handed her the garlic. “Crush and dice.”

He took the onion and began to slice it. 

"You live with someone," Hannibal said. As with everything, he didn’t need to ask the question: he already knew the answer. He had seen a shadow moving past the window when he’d collected Alana that morning. "Your boyfriend?" he asked. 

“Not my boyfriend.”

Alana wondered if she’d spoken too soon-- eager to broadcast that she had nobody to hold her back, maybe? It didn’t matter now. 

She crushed the cloves of garlic with her knife, using her palm and its flat edge to break open the protective, paper like cover the sticky cloves resided in. “I have a roommate.” she explained and began to chop the garlic into small, uneven pieces.

“-- She’s nice.” she left him to mull that over.

Hannibal took note of everything Alana said, filing it away for future reference. Was he really so pleased to hear she didn’t have a boyfriend? What was her company reducing him to? He was no better than a petulant schoolboy. 

"I’ve never experienced the joys of having a roommate," he replied. Unless you counted the  
contents of his freezer. 

"Will she miss you this evening? This is the second one in a row I’ve stolen you for."  
Alana soffed. “No need to worry,” she said. “I’m confident she enjoys having the apartment all to herself.” she made room on her cutting board, moving the garlic off to the side.

“-- We agree to disagree.” she explained and shifted on her feet, waiting for further instructions. “But she is a good person.” 

She hated to paint her out to be a sloppy and irresponsible-- even if it were the truth. 

Hannibal nodded, smiling at Alana encouragingly as she talked. Once all the ingredients were chopped, he placed a large frying pan on the stove and waited for the oil to heat up. 

"When I was studying at John Hopkins I had an apartment to myself. I was one of the only students who did. Often I wonder if that says more about myself than it does other people."

He had no doubt he would probably be insufferable to live with. 

"Perhaps I’m enjoyed best in small doses."

Alana smiled into the pan, observing as the ingredients warmed up over the heat. “I think that depends on compatibility.” she said and turned to look at him.

“-- I think that I can take you in heavy doses.” she chuckled lightly. It sounded ridiculous now that she heard it said aloud.

"Well, I consider myself extremely fortunate," Hannibal replied. "Now, let’s cook."

He guided Alana in front of the frying pan, standing behind her once more, with his hands guiding her own. He poured in the freshly chopped ingredients, and then the beaten eggs. 

"It can be tempting to stir things straight away," Hannibal said, his words melting into the nape of Alana’s neck.  
"But it’s best to wait until the very last moment before you do. It always tastes that much sweeter."

Something told him they weren’t talking about the eggs any more.

She nodded once and teased her bottom lip with her teeth, playing with the flesh once again because their bodies touched, his warm breath grazed the nape of her neck and the he insinuated something else-- something more complex. Something that had nothing to do with eggs.

“Everything grows sweeter with anticipation, Hannibal.” she said and she forced herself to take an interest in the mixture the two created in the pan. "How do you know when it’s ready?”

Hannibal smiled to himself. “You’ll know,” he replied, his voice both dark and alluring.

As they stood together, entwined, his mind took a sudden detour and conjured up one thought: what would Richards think of this? Hannibal smiled wider. He didn’t care. Hannibal had chosen Alana, and Alana had chosen him. As pagans divined the future from the stars, wasn’t this, too, destined?

They waited. When the eggs cooked, Hannibal flipped the omelette over, and then turned the stove off completely.

"It’s ready," he told her, eager to see her next move. She was a difficult person to anticipate.

Her limbs were like gelatin as Hannibal moved away from her, his words having a lingering effect on her and implanted inside her head was something she felt she could have only imagined, but she hadn't imagined it. It felt so real-- whatever it was felt too real.

She wondered if Hannibal felt it too.

"-- What do we serve alongside it?" Alana turned her head to look at her mentor. She felt like a young girl developing a crush on her teacher, but unlike a young girl she could peruse this.

Hannibal retrieved the parma ham and ripped it into thick strips, garnishing the omelette with them. “There,” he said. “Of course the meal is missing an accompanying glass of wine,” Hannibal looked to Alana, “or beer.”

He took the omelette through to the dining room, and poured them both drinks. 

Hannibal took his seat at the head of the table, reserving a place for Alana by his right side. Outside all was white. Icicles framed the window, and from his seat he could see the earth was blanketed in snow.

"I fear I should have taken you home when the chance was there," he remarked. "It appears you’re now trapped."

Alana smiled and regarded the weather momentarily, but soon the food that was laid out on the table stole her attention and she realized how hungry she’d become. Her body was beginning to come down from its high, fear and arousal having proven to be an intoxicating combination-- orgasmic even.

“Trapped with good food.” she corrected Hannibal and sat to his left. “-- I hope it tastes alright. I did help after all.” she feared - even with the chef’s assistance - the dish would meet his expectations.

“I’m starved.” she laughed.

"No doubt you had a spike of adrenaline back at the sanatorium," Hannibal noted. "It always makes one hungry."

He served Alana first, and them himself. And, as it turned out, the omelette tasted very good. “I think this has been a successful day after all,” Hannibal said between mouthfuls. 

Outside may have been cold, but inside it was warm, and Hannibal didn’t want to let Alana go home any time soon. Her company was too inviting.

"Tell me Alana, what do you enjoy doing in your spare time?"

Alana didn’t have much free time these days, her schedule planned out carefully and filled with school work and the occasional extracurricular activity, but she did find time for leisure. Though, they were becoming more scarce.

“I try to unwind.” she explained and took a bite of the omelet, the flavors all complementary and delicious. “-- Lose myself in a good book.” she thought aloud and washed down the egg with a swig of beer. She enjoyed a good, long walk, but the changing weather outside was making her strolls unpleasant.

“Although I find reading for pleasure difficult these days.” she said. “Sometimes I can’t bring myself to turn a single page.”

Hannibal nodded approvingly. It was a depressing fact that people read less and less these days. He wondered what they did instead. Play video games? There was no merit in that. Go to nightclubs? He couldn’t think of anything worse.

"Do you enjoy music?" Hannibal asked her. "I happen to be on the board of directors for the Baltimore Philharmonic Orchestra."

He was bragging. He knew that, and didn’t care. 

 

Alana smiled at Hannibal. “I’m impressed,” she said. “but not surprised.” 

Hannibal was certain that Hannibal was a rare find; he enjoyed things most people didn’t and she admired it. 

“-- You’re an enthralling individual, Hannibal, I must admit.”

Hannibal looked at Alana, saying nothing. He searched her features, noting how each muscle moved as she spoke or said nothing at all. It was moments like this he almost wanted to believe in God again, for how could such perfection be dictated by a random mix of genes? Alana was like a sculpture, formed to perfection.

"There are many things we have yet to learn about each other," he remarked. Hannibal already knew the essentials about her. His keen senses could garner several important things about Alana, from how she was feeling to what brand of perfume she was wearing. 

He sat back in his chair, though his posture remained as graceful as a dancer’s. “Unless you would prefer to remain strictly professional.”

Alana mulled over what Hannibal said, her pale eyes fixated on his face. She wanted to know Hannibal. She wanted to know him outside of the classroom, but such would be unprofessional, and maybe even inappropriate.

“I’d like to know you on an unprofessional level.” she admitted, but sucked in her bottom lip, fiddled with the skin and looked down at his lips. “But what will others think?” she asked and rested her leaned forward on the table, her head rested on her hands. “-- You know what they think already, Hannibal.”

Ever since Hannibal and Alana had first met, whispers had followed them. Perhaps it was because she was the first to raise her hand in a lecture, or maybe because their class debates usually ran overtime. Whatever it was, it was nothing Hannibal was particularly concerned about.

Rumors had never stopped him from doing what he wanted before.

As Alana spoke, Hannibal ran his fingers along the stem of his wine glass, his gaze focused on the dark liquid it contained. He could still taste the wine on his tongue: cloves, cinnamon, honey. Rich but sweet. Its flavor seemed to set the mood of the evening, and as he looked up at Alana a feeling of resolution washed over him.

"Let them think whatever they like," he said, leaning forwards as he spoke. In one fluid motion his hand was cupping Alana’s cheek, his lips pressed against hers in a confident but gentle kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal’s lips against her own was glorious and in that moment, it was only her professor in his grand diningroom, sharing a kiss. The idea that her peers suspicions were now true was no longer the forefront in her mind, but was buried underneath reality, but the reality was that this could only ever be was just a kiss - and a great one at that - but just a kiss. 

No matter how badly Alana wanted Hannibal, she knew he would have to remain out of reach, and she resisted his affections.

Their lips parted and Alana looked into the man’s eyes, her lips tingling. “-- I’m confused.” her voice was soft.

All too soon it was over, leaving Hannibal feeling morose and frustrated. But he knew better than to kiss Alana again. 

He let his hand slip from her face, and drew backwards. “Are you?” Hannibal questioned. “This can’t come as a surprise to you.”

It had been building up for too long. And if he was honest with himself, this moment had played on his mind for weeks. 

She might reject you.

The thought suddenly occurred to him that Alana might simply not want to embark on this journey with him. 

“It’s not,” she admitted and with the tip of her tongue she traced her bottom lip. She could still taste him there. “-- I did encourage it.” she admitted to not only Hannibal, but herself; she’d wanted it all so badly, but she’d become lost in her schoolgirl fantasy, all that was on the line forgotten and it was selfish of her.

“I don’t want you to go and jeopardize your career for me, Hannibal.” she said. “-- It would be foolish.” she wanted make him happy, and she wanted another kiss. Alana wanted so much more than just a doltish kiss.

She sighed softly and reached forward to hold his hand. “You can understand that, can’t you?”

Hannibal peered down at their hands. He supposed it was a good thing that Alana was being cautious, that she cared about his own integrity as well as hers. But he was a master of keeping secrets, and adding one more to the bank wouldn’t be a trouble.

"I can be discreet," he assured her. "As I’m sure you can."

He stoked Alana’s hand with his thumb. Although he took care of his skin, Alana’s silken flesh made his own feel like sandpaper. 

"Whatever may happen, your future is of importance to me, Alana."

Hannibal leaned towards Alana, his lips hovering in front of her own. The future would be determined by what happened next.

She wanted to lean in and steal another kiss from him, but her better half refused her such luxuries. Instead, she leaned forward and pressed a soft, yet promising kiss to the apple of his high cheek. “I think its best that I get home.” she said and held onto his hand with both of hers.

Alana needed time to mull this over; she needed to strip the idea of them down to its core until it was bare and she was certain she’d discovered each possible ending they could meet. She needed to do this before she allowed herself this pleasure.

It was a bad habit she had and one she knew she would never lose.

Hannibal wasn’t certain whether he had secured Alana’s affections yet, not completely anyway. But he was ever the gentleman, and he wouldn’t stop her from leaving. “Of course,” he said, rising from his chair.

He escorted Alana into the hallway, helping her into her coat before he slipped into his own.

The drive back was a quiet one. No doubt Alana was wrapped up in her thoughts. Fortunately the snow had abated, but driving required his concentration. For once, he was grateful for a distraction from his thoughts.

When he reached Alana’s apartment, Hannibal pulled over and cut the engine. His hands remained on the wheel. 

"I suppose I’ll see you on Monday, in class," he mumbled.

Alana nodded gently. “I enjoyed today, Hannibal. Thank you for dinner.” she said and carefully exited the vehicle, but was met with a cold gust of wind that whipped her hair all around. She yearned for warmth and much to her disappointment, her apartment would have to provide her with such. Not Hannibal.

“Enjoy the rest of your weekend.” she said. “-- I’ll see you Monday.”   
Alana closed the Bentley’s door and trudged up the steep, snow covered steps, but not with elegance; she found herself on all fours at the top of the porch, having slipped on a hidden patch of ice.

Hannibal had been watching Alana the whole time. He’d wanted to offer walking her to the front door, but didn’t want to seem forward or presumptuous. God forbid she start to compare him to Richards.

But when she slid forward Hannibal immediately exited his Bentley, lithely dashing up Alana’s steps.

He knelt and scooped her into his grip. Concern grew within him. Alana had damaged her throat, and he didn’t want anything to exacerbate her condition. He palmed her cheek in his hand, tilting her head upwards to look at him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

Mortified, Alana struggled to find her own balance, but Hannibal had done so for her as he scooped her up off the ground and held her in his arms. He was so warm, but not as warm as her face had felt as her cheeks turned a bright shade of red. She could have blamed it on the chilly wind…

“I’m okay,” she hesitated and held onto his coat as she found her footing. 

Alana found herself leaning into Hannibal; her cheek pressed against his hand that caressed her cheek and her body leaned into his, searching for warmth and affection.

“-- Thank you.” she found herself looking at his lips and the urge to lean forward and kiss them was strong. 

"You’re welcome," Hannibal replied, noting the way Alana’s gaze slipped to his lips. She was thinking about kissing him. He was thinking about kissing her.

And so he did.

He joined his lips to Alana’s, not so hesitantly this time, but confidently. Hannibal had decided years ago that he would not deny himself what he desired - life was too short for such foolish restraint - and he certainly desired Alana.

His hand slipped into her hair, where his fingers twined in her silken locks. 

When he pulled away, he could feel a spike of warmth in his gut.

 

Alana was persistent after Hannibal kissed her again. She showed no fear as she kissed this man, generous as she joined her lips with his time after time, and each time after that she became more and more indulgent with her affections. She wanted to show him just how compassionate she could be-- she wanted to show him what passion did to her.

She backed up against the front door, leading Hannibal to her by his face. She held his face in her soft, but cold hands, her thumbs tracing small strokes across the surface of his cheeks and she kissed him again, but this time she dared to taste him.

Electricity pulsed through him as Alana returned his kiss, this time with more fervor. His free hand went to her waist, where he hungrily felt the curves there. It was as if she’d been carved from unblemished marble.

His lips slipped from Alana’s mouth to her neck, where he lay a thousand kisses. She tasted sweet and honest; it was an intoxicating perfume. 

A distant voice in the back of his head told him to be careful, that anyone could see them kissing in the open. But for once he decided to be impulsive. Besides, he wasn’t sure he could stop even if he wanted to. 

 

His lips on her neck was almost too much to bare and she sighed aloud, her hot breath visible in the winter air. Alana could see him kiss upon her skin through squinted eyes. She wanted to feel his lips all over her body, but a door and several flights of stairs stood in their way, inhibiting her from sprawling out before him as if she were something to be feasted upon.

“-- I’ve gotta unlock the door.” she murmured into the air and she began to rummage through her purse blindly, searching for her key ring.

Hannibal mumbled something unintelligible in reply. In all honesty, he would have been content to lay Alana down in the snow if it meant not having to wait, but he understood that was probably not the most desirable course of action. 

He pulled away far enough so that Alana would be able to unlock the door, simultaneously casting his gaze around the street to ensure no one was secretly watching them.

It wasn’t long before she’d found her key, unlocked the door and ushered Hannibal inside, joining their hands together.

The building itself was dated and the halls were dim and quiet, the lights overhead flickering. 

“I’m on the third floor.” she explained and ascended the stairs. 

She wondered what Hannibal would think when he’d laid eyes on what she called home; it was wasn’t grand and was nothing more than a small living room, a kitchen, two bedrooms and a single bath. 

She feared it would put him off.

For a brief moment, Hannibal found the strength to pull away from Alana long enough to take in his surroundings. Her apartment was pleasant, but it certainly wasn’t to Hannibal’s standards. The wallpaper was peeling in several places, and the carpets had a musty smell that made him wrinkle his nose.

If it were up to Hannibal, he would have Alana living in her own palace.

He gently moved away from Alana, and walked into the apartment’s kitchen. Hannibal barely fit inside. He had to stoop his shoulders to stop his head from bumping against the ceiling.

"No wonder you couldn’t make an omelette," he remarked dryly, though his tone was laced with humor. 

“My roommate is out for the night.” 

Alana wore a coy grin upon her face as she removed her boots and her damp coat, hanging the garment on the hook to dry. 

“-- We’re alone.”

Hannibal turned back to Alana, raising one eyebrow at her. “Is she?” he asked, stalking towards the young woman, and taking her into his arms again. “Good.”

He kissed her again, softly but with growing urgency. The situation, and the high stakes, should have concerned him, but instead he was excited. Keeping a secret could be thrilling when you kept it well. 

When they both ran out of breath, Hannibal reluctantly pulled away. “Aren’t you going to give me a tour?” he asked.

Alana had managed to free Hannibal from the coat he wore as another frenzy of feverish kisses commenced. She was careful as she unfastened each black button, but fast. She was so eager to get him out of each and every last garment he wore, but she could wait a moment longer.

Damn you. She thought and took him by the hand, ready to lead him across the small layout.

“We’re standing in the living room,” she breathed. Their kiss had left her breathless. “The kitchen and dining room,” 

She felt like there were butterflies in her tummy as they neared her bedroom and together they traveled down the narrow hallway. “At the end of the hall is the bathroom and to the left is Sarah’s room,” she said. “and this is my bedroom.”

Behind the closed door was a small, yet organized room: a twin bed, dresser and desk positioned about the room, all crafted from high quality material.

It didn’t match the rest of the home.

Surrounded by her books and clothes, Hannibal felt as if he had been let into a part of Alana’s life that very few others had the honor of experiencing. His eyes roamed the small bedroom, noting the books on the shelf and the tiny but quaint dresser beneath. 

Nothing may have been to his own personal taste, but he couldn’t deny the room’s charm. 

The only thing out of place was him. He took up the majority of the room; although he was lithe, his presence seemed to command a great deal of space. It would have been uncomfortable if Hannibal wasn’t reminded why he was here: Alana.

He cupped Alana’s face in his hands and kissed her once upon the lips. “I sincerely hope your roommate is out for quite some time.”

Alana chuckled softly and closed the door behind her. “Assume she won’t be home until morning.” she said and approached Hannibal, determined to devote all of her attention to him. “She could be anywhere,” she said and began to kiss his lips again, but migrated to his neck. “but we’re completely alone, Hannibal.”

She guided Hannibal to her bed, coaxing him forward with her lips until the backs of her legs made contact with its edge. She began to undress herself, removing her sweater first reveal a nude colored bra and a creamy canvas that was her skin, small blemishes strewn across its surface.

She wished she’d put on something a little more appealing that morning.

“-- You’re certain you want this?” she murmured and took hold of his collar. The material felt soft and expensive and she began to work each individual button open, her eyes fixated on his face as she did. “With me, I mean…”

She felt the tuft of hair on his chest with her fingers as she waited for his reply, noting the way it extended down past his navel. 

Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again when Alana’s lips migrated to his neck. His eyelids fluttered and then closed completely, a warmth spreading through his body. 

He lowered Alana onto the bed, coming to rest beside her. A voice in the back of his head demanded to know what he was doing: you’re in a student’s apartment. If her roommate comes home early, what are you going to do?

But right at that moment, Hannibal didn’t care. “Of course I do,” he murmured. “I’m offended you’d even ask, Miss Bloom.”

She’d never understand how she managed to lure her professor into bed with her; it was so unlike her, but yet she couldn’t find the strength to care. In this situation, the force that controlled her was driven by her body rather than her mind and all that was right had been sullied by lust.

“Don’t be offended.” she guided Hannibal closer, slotted between her legs where she desired his touch most. “There’s no need to be.” she said and kissed him again.

*

He hadn’t intended to stay the night. Not because he didn’t want to remain with Alana, but because he had never been able to fall asleep in any other bed except for his own. But lying there in the dark, Alana’s naked form resting against his, had lulled Hannibal into a sense of security, and before he knew it sleep had overcome him.

Strange dreams plagued him throughout the night. He was walking down a long corridor, with heavily bolted doors on either side, like in the sanitarium. But instead of patients behind them, there was food. Food he had made. Meals he had served to guests. To Alana.

By the time morning came and he awoke, Hannibal felt exhausted and he rolled over, expecting to find Alana there. Instead he found her side of the bed empty.


	5. Chapter 5

Alana awoke before Hannibal did. She snuck out of bed, leaving him to rest, and quickly changed into a pair of silk pajamas. Sleep came easy to her. She drifted off to sleep almost immediately in the arms of her professor, and she felt rejuvenated-- but also anxious. After all, Alana never intended for yesterday to end the way it did, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t more than pleased with the outcome. I guess the rumors are true, she thought and looked back at Hannibal, observing him as he slept in her bed. I have slept with Dr. Lecter. 

She went to the bathroom first, then to the kitchen. She thought she could impress Hannibal further by replicating the omelet they made they had for dinner, but they’d have to settle for bacon over cured parma ham. It occurred to her then, when she flipped the yellow, fully omelet over, that her roommate Casey would be home soon, if she wasn’t already…

Alana divided the omelet evenly on two dishes, buttered two pieces of toast, and poured two mugs of coffee. She wondered how Hannibal drank his coffee while she snuck down the hall to peek inside of Casey’s room. It was empty and the bed was the same as she left it-- unmade. She couldn’t help but smile. That meat she could buy herself some more time with Hannibal, and more importantly, she could get him out of the building without anybody finding out.

Hannibal rolled over, expecting to find Alana there. Instead he found her side of the bed empty. He frowned. A moment later he smelled her cooking. A smile curved his lips. She was making an omelette. 

No one can say she isn’t dedicated.

He sat up in bed, the sheets falling to his waist, and stroked his hair flat. The morning after the night before always invited awkwardness, but Hannibal felt uncharacteristically at home in Alana’s small bedroom. 

“Morning,” Alana said and approached the bed, an anxious smile on her face. She wasn’t necessarily ashamed of what they did, but was Hannibal? Would he feel differently about her now, as a student and as his pupil? All actions have consequences, after all. “did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” Hannibal lied, smiling as he took one of the plates from Alana. “You learn quickly,” he remarked, forking eggs into his mouth. “They’re good.”

He momentarily put down his plate of eggs, using his arms to pull Alana onto the bed. She looked elegant with her tousled hair and silk pajama bottoms, like something you could wake up next to for the rest of your life.

“I don’t think anyone has ever made me breakfast in bed,” Hannibal remarked, resuming his breakfast. “Usually it’s the other way around.”

Alana made herself comfortable on the bed and took a bite out of her toast first. It was still warm and the melted butter had soaked in. “Well you’re my guest, Hannibal.” she said and finally tasted the eggs, relieved to discover that they were both edible and tasty. “It’s only polite.” she added and took a few more bites of the eggs, then turned her head to look at him.

She wondered what he was thinking just then. She knew he must've been thinking about her, but in what facet? Am I that student now? She thought. Alana wondered if she looked as concerned as she felt.

Hannibal settled into a comfortable silence as he ate. After last night’s exertions he found himself to be ravenous. It seemed he was a good teacher too, as Alana’s eggs tasted nearly as good as his own.

When he had finished, Hannibal laid the plate on the bedside dresser and cupped Alana’s legs.

“How will I be able to take my eyes off you during tomorrow’s lecture? I’ll be consumed with thoughts of what you’ve been concealing so well under your skirts.” Hannibal shot her an amused grin. “I’ll have to think about Richards in order to calm myself down.”

Alana couldn’t help but laugh at Hannibal and like that, all her worries were forgotten for the time being. She’d surely mull them over several times more when he left to return home, though... But she was no longer anxious, just embarrassed. Embarrassed enough that her cheeks felt hot. “-- Oh stop!” she said and put her hands over his, a big smile on her face. 

He took a great pleasure in making Alana blush. Hannibal knew he was revealing another side of himself to her, peeling away another layer until he was laid bare. Of course he could never reveal all of himself to her, or to anyone, but for now he was content for her to see him with his guard down.

“Tell me, when are you going to bring an end to our clandestine meeting? I assume your roommate will be back soon.” Not to mention his Bentley had been outside all night. He would have to start parking around the corner from now on.

Alana set her plate aside and leaned forward, her face only inches away from Hannibal’s now. “As soon as you get dressed.” she said and looked down at the man. He wore nothing but her sheet around his waist.

Despite her concerns, Alana enjoyed herself last night. Prior to becoming his pupil, the thought of being intimate with Hannibal crossed her mind once, or maybe twice. And when he finally decided to take her under his proverbial wing, she never intended for it to happen… But it wasn’t something that just occurred; Hannibal and Alana were both guilty of enticing one another. 

“Hmm.”

Suddenly, the thought of returning to his empty house didn’t seem so appealing. Usually returning home was a respite from other people, but now he was filled with a gaping cavity that he suspected only Alana could fill now.

He weaved his fingers through her hair, leaning forward to kiss her. She tasted like salt and sugar.

Surely they had time to enjoy one more tryst before he had to leave?

Just as he’d made up his mind to make the most of Alana while he had the chance, the apartment’s front door opened and closed. Hannibal pulled back far enough so he could peer into Alana’s face, a frown crossing his face.

“Alana!” a voice called. “Why is there a friggin’ Bentley outside? Did we win the lottery? You better be dressed, I’m coming in!”

Alana sprung up when Casey called her name. “She can’t know you’re here.” but he already knew that. This could ruin everything. She ruins everything, she thought and formed a plan-- one Hannibal wouldn’t like. “It’ll be just for a little bit-- until I can get her to go away.” she said and opened the door to her closet. It was small and cramped, and cluttered with her things. “I’m so sorry...” Alana was mortified and desperate for him to oblige, picking up the sheets Hannibal wore around his waist and pressing them into his chest.   
You’re forcing him to hide in your closet! She thought and beat Casey to the door, cracking it open just an inch.

Hannibal wasn’t sure what he was more distraught about: having to hide in a closet like some burglar or Alana kicking his expensive suit under the bed.   
But what choice did he have?

Clutching the bed sheet around his waist, Hannibal ducked into the closet and closed the door. He sighed as Alana left the bedroom. This was a new low.

*  
Casey was hungover, but that didn’t stop her from snooping. She gazed over Alana’s shoulder, trying to peer into her roommate’s room.  
“What are you up to?” she asked Alana.

Despite her calm composure, Alana was agitated. Her heart was beating in her chest and she felt hot all of a sudden. “I’m getting my laundry together.” she said and stepped out of her room, promptly closing the door behind her. It was then that she remembered Hannibal left his coat in the living room… “Do you have anything that needs to be washed? I’ve only got a few things.” Now I have to do her laundry... 

Casey stared at Alana suspiciously. “Laundry?” she questioned, not sure whether she bought that or not. But surely Alana Bloom couldn’t be doing anything she shouldn’t be: Alana Bloom was perfect, a straight A student who never put a foot wrong. Whatever she was hiding couldn’t be contraband. “Okay…” she said, and padded down the hallway, to collect her dirty washing.

*  
Hannibal had listened to the entire conversation, and carefully slipped back into the room as the girls were talking. He did his best to straighten out his suit before putting it on: the bedraggled look wasn’t one that suited him, admittedly. 

When he was certain Alana’s roommate was gone, he slowly opened the bedroom door to look at his now-lover.

“I feel like a schoolboy,” he remarked, somewhat grumpily. He wished they hadn’t been interrupted.

Alana turned around to look up at Hannibal, chewing on the inside of her lip. “I am so sorry, Hannibal.” she said and eventually walked him to the door, grabbing his winter coat off the arm of the couch on the way. Maybe one day they could laugh about the whole ordeal...

With another apologetic look, she pressed his coat into his chest and her lips against his. It was gentle but promising, and sadly had to come to an end. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” she said a moment after, stroking his cheek with her thumb and smiled at him. “Goodbye, Doctor Lecter.” I have my roommate's laundry to do now, she thought.

When Alana disappeared behind her front door, Hannibal sucked his bottom lip, still tasting her there. He sighed, giving the door one last regretful glance before he turned around and got back into his car, driving away before anyone else might take notice of him.


End file.
